


Six Children

by tempisfugit



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-13 06:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempisfugit/pseuds/tempisfugit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five children Sansa saved and one she couldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Children

**Author's Note:**

>  I used a much broader definition of "saved."  Written for Laine's prompt over at the [ASOIAF Kinkmeme](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6314.html?thread=4572842#t4572842)

Tommen screams in his sleep, his cries echoing through the Red Keep, and Sansa hates him for it, hates him for disturbing her few hours of peace and silence. Exhausted and frustrated, she rises from her bed one night, wrapping herself in a warm cloak as she quietly opens her doorway and follows his cries, lullabies and words of comfort on the tip of her tongue. The door to his bedchamber is ajar and the light from the fire spills onto the stone floor. Somehow, his cries seem softer now that she is so close and her heart stops as she hears a familiar voice, high-pitched and cruel. “Princes should never cry,” he says, as Tommen lets out another whimper amidst the unmistakable sounds of flesh-on-flesh. So alike to her own treatment, yet she, at least, does not have to feel his hands on her naked skin, just his guards.

The next morning at court, when her sweet king feigns chivalry, she makes sure to take too long to answer, she speaks words that she knows are not precisely what he wants to hear, she curtsies clumsily, fidgeting with her hands, her sleeves, her dress. As Ser Boros and Ser Meryn rip her bodice and draw their swords, groping and beating, she has to hold back her smile. That night, all is quiet and she sleeps well, despite her bruises and cuts and wounds, knowing that – in this song – the fair maiden has saved the young golden prince from the monster.

\---

 

The shaking never seems to stop and Alayne knows that it is a kindness to give him sweetsleep, that it would be for his own good if one morning he did not wake. She tells herself that it has nothing to do with her father’s plans – it’s for Sweetrobin’s own sake – but the people of the Vale will need a stronger lord if they are to survive winter, and little Lord Arryn cannot lead them, or inspire them, or defend them.

The boy tosses in his sleep anxiously, his long hair covering his face and his thin ( _too thin_ ) legs peek out from under the furs. As she moves to cover him, her brother comes to mind -  _no brothers_  - with his thin, broken legs. By all rights he should have died too, should have been allowed to pass dreamlessly into a permanent sleep.  _I have no brothers, no sisters._  And yet he had awoken and Father –  _not father, not father_  – had said once that he had grown stronger each day.

“Is that you, Alayne?” says a groggy voice.

“No, Sweetrobin, it’s Sansa, your cousin Sansa. I’m here to save you from Lord Petyr.”

\---

 

Rickon emerges from the Godswood, Shaggydog at his side, both baring their teeth in a fearsome snarl. Sansa cannot move, cannot speak, her hands clutching her dress as she stares at her lost brother. He looks at her with his head cocked, a quizzical expression on his face. “Mother?” He asks, and the tears start spilling down her cheeks.

Her golden lion breaks the silence, speaking the words that she cannot find. “No, Lord Stark, this is Sansa, your sister.”

“Don’ wanna be a lord,” he says angrily as Shaggydog growls. “Father was a lord. And Robb was a lord. And Bran was a lord. And they went away and never came back. Not a lord.”

 _Not a ser_ , Sansa thinks, as she walks slowly to her wild brother, kneeling to take him gingerly in her arms.

“You do not have to be a lord, dear one. You are alive and have come back to me, and that is what matters. Things will be just as they were before, you’ll see. You do not have to be a lord.”

With that, Rickon breaks free from her embrace, grinning wildly as her starts to run towards Winterfell.

“So much for ‘Family, Duty, Honor’, my lady,” Jaime says, with a smirk, as they follow him.

She pauses, looking at him with a pained expression as she takes his hand. “You better than most should know that Honor can be the opposite of Duty and that Family is more important than both.”

\---

 

Jeyne Westerling rides to Winterfell on a roan palfrey, her long brown hair dirty and tangled from the wind, her cheeks raw from the cold. She is alone, but for one guard wearing the green of the Crannogmen. She dismounts hastily, rushing towards Sansa and falling in the snow at her feet, begging for safety. Sansa’s eyes are icy and harsh, like the Trident in winter, and her brilliant red hair rises like flames from her grey cloak. She looks down at Jeyne’s bent head and outstretched arms and thinks of Lady, of Robb and Grey Wind, of her mother, of all those who died for love, for foolish songs, for honor. She hears a muffled cry and notices the red hair at Jeyne’s breast and she gasps softly, going to her knees as she reaches to feel the downy hair.

“A boy. His name is Ned,” Jeyne says haltingly.

Sansa’s eyes grow warm with tears and she smiles widely. “You and your son are safe here, sister. On my honor as a Stark, no one shall harm you or your child, I swear it.”

\---

 

There is something of Arya in this strange girl, something around the eyes. She is not beautiful – no – she is not even pretty – but there is a spark in her eyes, a curiosity. While Arya wore it openly, Shireen seems tentative and unsure, and Sansa cannot decide if it is because of the greyscale or her unloving, harsh parents. The girl stands near the fire, fidgeting and looking terrified at her surroundings. Sansa takes in the awkward way she carries herself, her rough hands, and her large feet.  _How can I ever make her into a lady? She wouldn’t have lasted one day with Cersei. How can I teach her to smile sweetly and recite her courtesies?_

And then she catches a glimpse of Arya once more and she grins, taking the girl’s hands in hers.  _Needlework, certainly. I shall see the blacksmith in the morning. Shireen Baratheon will not need to be saved by anyone but herself._

\---

 

Her son emerges squalling, proudly wearing his colors: golden curls matted with red, red blood; and as the midwife wraps him in a white blanket Sansa thinks that he is the spitting image of his father, right down to the Kingsguard cloak. A father who is not here to see his son, the one that he would finally have been able to recognize as his own, a father who rode south to dispense justice to his twin and has not returned. Sansa lays back against the pillows, bringing her son to her breast and exhaling in relief as he begins to suck, her golden child enveloped in her long, red hair.

 

Weeks later, when the Dragon Queen walks through the Red Keep, she passes two bundles wrapped in cloaks, one so very small –  _like Rhaego, she thinks_  – and she looks wide-eyed at Ser Jorah, who looks downcast, “some of the men, they thought a present was in order… for Elia and Rhaenys… the last of the Lannisters, paying their debts.” Daenerys looks stricken for a moment but then nods, continuing up the steps before seating herself calmly on the Iron Throne.

 


End file.
